


You and Me

by Morfinwen



Category: Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords
Genre: F/M, Songfic, i guess i mean i don't know what a songfic entails precisely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 19:59:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7375462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morfinwen/pseuds/Morfinwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short series inspired by Lifehouse's song "You and Me", Atton/Exile - She's here, with him, and you can't use these minutes like regular ones. You have to make every one count.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not really sure what makes up a songfic, technically speaking, so maybe this counts as one. It's a kinda fluffy, kinda angsty series of short stories about Atton's relationship with a LSF!Exile, inspired by Lifehouse's song You and Me. Hence the title.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
__ What day is it?  
_ And in what month?  
_ __ This clock never seemed so alive

He used to keep a log in his head - where he was currently, where he was headed next, how he was getting there, how much he was getting paid, etc. He wasn't one of those anal-retentive types who needed to have things organized down to the very second, but he liked to have a general idea. Today he had to look up the galactic standard calendar just to know what month it was.

Maybe it's just because he's not in charge of this mission or whatever-it-is, or maybe it's because he falls asleep in the pilot's chair at irregular times of the day or night too exhausted even to undress, or maybe it's because "time" doesn't seem to mean the same thing to these Jedi-types as it does to the rest of the galaxy.

Or maybe it's because he's too busy counting the hours until she's likely to walk in again.

The crew quarters aren't big enough to fit the whole crew anymore, but she still tries to find time for each of them, even the droids; even the old witch. Sometimes it's just a few minutes, sometimes it seems like she has all day, but she makes sure that every couple days she touches base with each of them - separate from the daily instructions, directions and activities they are all involved in. He admires her unconditional, unprejudiced concern for all of them slightly more than he hates how short his conversations with her always seem to be.

He doesn't hear the door open or the footsteps approach, but that faint sense he just started to become aware of tells him it's her, and he hides his pleasure with a over-the-top grin as he turns to look at her. "I was wondering when you were going to show up next. Almost started to think you needed a reminder of where the cockpit is."

She rolls her eyes. "It's only been two days, Atton."

Has it? He lost track again. "Sure, but those were two hyperspace days. You can't count those like regular days." He digs into his pocket and drags out his side deck. "Pazaak?"

She smiles, one of her more genuine ones, though all of hers look worn enough to have come from a second-hand store. "In all my childhood dreaming, I never imagined I'd find myself playing a card game when I could be sparring."

A small, bitter creature with sharp teeth that's taken up residence in his chest stirs. "Mical actually took a break from his ancient battle technique for some hands-on experience?"

She looks at him oddly. "Actually, Bao and I tested out some crystal combinations for his lightsaber."

He feels slightly embarrassed, and comes to join her on the cockpit floor. He starts dealing the cards, shoving aside awkward emotions and tells the little monster in his chest to shut up. She's here, with him, and you can't use these minutes like regular ones. You have to make every one count.


	2. Chapter 2

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
_I can't keep up_  
_And I can't back down_  
_I've been losing so much time_

He watches jealously, guiltily, desperately, as she and Mical work together. She holds the girl close while Mical applies the kolto, bandaging her leg. She talks cheerfully to the girl as he works, assuring her that it won't take long for her leg to heal, and soon she'll be able to help her family in the fields again. He helps her to her feet, and talks to her like an adult when he gives her directions on taking care of her leg. Impulsively the girl hugs them both before running back toward her house.

"I wonder what would happen if we were to change the galactic currency from credits to hugs," she says as they watch her leave. She moves closer to him - not quite close enough to touch.

"I imagine it would limit trade with the Hutts," Mical replies. He's always so straight-faced, it's hard to tell if he means it as a joke.

She laughs, clearly and long. "I imagine it would," she chokes out after a minute.

_It isn't_ that _good,_ he thinks unconvincingly.

She catches her breath again, and smiles at him. "So you really do have a sense of humor?"

He looks embarrassed. "I think I meant that a bit more literally than you took it, Master."

_Oh stars. How can she stand to be around someone who's always so serious?_

"Is it safe for her to go alone?" she asks abruptly. "The kinrath and kath hounds - "

"Thanks to your efforts, Master, I should think a toddler could walk from here to Khoonda without trouble."

She shakes her head. "It wasn't just my efforts, Mical. I had you, and Atton, and Brianna .. "

If it's his imagination that she stays on "you" longer than "Atton", he needs to have his head checked. If it isn't ..

"Leaders do not accept only blame for the work of their protégées, Master."

"Good leaders don't take credit for what they didn't do."

Mical sighs, and turns to look at him. "Atton, perhaps you can persuade her."

He hadn't expected to get brought into the conversation; he hadn't known they even realized he was there.

_She can't know I was listening to all that!_

"Huh?" He blinks. "I can't persuade her of anything. Watch this. Hey, can we - "

"No."

"But you didn't even know what I was going to say!" he complains.

"I told you, Atton, and I will tell you again, you are instituting 'Underwear-Only Fridays' over my dead body."

"...What? I never suggested that!" he objects, untruthfully. "I mean, Kreia in her .... _eeeeeugh!_ "

Mical coughs, and she tries hard not to snicker. She ends up having to cover her mouth with her hand. "Okay, that's enough. Honestly, between hugging Hutts and Underwear-Only Fridays, you both are going to be the death of me."

It's nice of her to include them both in the same sentence, because they don't both belong there. Since Mical joined the crew, he has tried to match him in her estimation, without success. The only way he can hope to outdo Mical is in humor, and even there the paragon is beating him without even trying.

Honorable scholar, lying scoundrel. Tough choice.


	3. Chapter 3

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
_'Cause it's you and me_  
_And all of the people_  
_And I don't know why_  
_I can't take my eyes off of you_

He's staring again.

She hasn't noticed yet because she has her eyes closed, trying to catch some rest before they all come crashing in for dinner. Sometimes she has a sense about this and other times she misses it, or maybe she's too tired to respond.

"Do I have a twig in my hair?"

Or not.

"Sorry, was I staring?"

"You're always staring, Atton, whether at me, at the ship, the cards, into the distance. You were staring when I first met you."

He sighs reflectively. "Yeah."

An indignant pause. "You're picturing me in my underwear again, aren't you?"

"What? No, of course not!"

She makes a sound other women make when they see a mouse. "You're picturing me _naked_?"

"Well _now_ I am." A shoe flies by his head and clangs harmlessly into the wall. He grins. "Your aim is always bad when you're angry." She glowers at him, which only makes him grin more. "Hey, don't blame me! I can hardly resist teasing you when it's so easy." _Not to mention that when she frowns, it looks positively adorable._

"Try sometime," she says between her teeth, but he can tell she isn't really angry. In fact, she seems to be fighting off a laugh.

Of course, one of the few things harder than not teasing her is not getting her to laugh. "All right, I'll make myself a note - next time the exile sticks her foot in her mouth, try not teasing her."

"'The exile'?" She raises an eyebrow. "'The _exile_ '? Seriously?"

He sits up straighter. "What, you're going to object to that nickname, too? You've shot down 'Master', 'beautiful', 'sweetheart', 'angel', 'hot stuff' ... "

"Alright, Rand, that's enough." Her voice is stern, so he relents - and is rewarded after a moment with a small, thoughtful smile. "Well, I suppose 'exile' is technically correct. Especially since I don't let anyone refer to me as a Jedi." After a pause, she adds, "Though you could try using my name."

"Where's the fun in that?"

She groans. "Atton ..."

"No, seriously. Anybody can call you by your name."

"You can't?"

He frowns. "I meant, I'm not just anybody."

Like always, she sees when she has hurt him - always unintentionally, almost never seriously - and she says immediately, "Oh, I see. No, of course you're not, but really, Atton, do you need to call me some sort of embarrassing nickname to prove that?"

"Well, I suppose I don't _need_ to, but it sure would help."

She rolls her eyes. "Fine. Pick a nickname, _within reason_ , and I promise not to object to it."

"You promise? Really?"

"Don't push it, Rand," she says warningly.

He smiles, and looks off thoughtfully, testing out a few names in his head. Something new, something he doesn't remember calling anyone else, something no one else has called her, a name that will be just theirs. "Princess," he says, after a long pause. "How's that?" He turns to look at her, and sees her duck her head as she blushes. "What? It fits."

"It's sweet of you to say so, Atton, but - "

"Do you object?"

She thinks a moment, then looks up and smiles at him; one of her smallest, most genuine ones. "No."

He grins back at her. "Okay then. Princess it is."


	4. Chapter 4

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
_I'm tripping on words_  
 _You've got my head spinning_  
 _I don't know where to go from here_

How the heck he's supposed to make any sense when he talks to her when his tongue keeps tripping over itself, he'll never know.

There isn't going to be a formal celebration on Onderon for a while - there's just the little matter of cleaning up after an explosive civil war to take care of first - but the queen insisted on holding a thank-you dinner for the crew. Despite the fact that "the crew" includes everyone (including Mandalore, Mical and the witch), and that he and suits don't generally get along, he's looking forward to a chance to get off the ship and eat something _good_. Then, of course, she came and joined him in the main hold and sent his trains of thought spinning in circles.

"How does this look?" she asks, turning around slowly for him to look, peering over her shoulder to look at her back. For the first time since he's met her, she's wearing a dress - pale blue, white trim, buttons down the bodice, and a skirt that flares when she twirls. Her hair is braided up intricately with white ribbons (he has no idea where she found ribbon) and she's wearing polished black boots that highlight how tiny her feet are.

He _knows_ what she's asking, of course; intellectually. Yet somehow his mind is having trouble working out the right response. She looks devastatingly beautiful, every inch of her. Her hair almost seems to glow in the light, the dress shows off her figure beautifully, and her eyes are shining.

He scratches his head as he tries not to stare (no success). "Well, uh ... "

"Is something wrong?" She stops and turns to look at him, concerned.

_Oh,_ hell _, she's gotten the wrong idea completely!_ "No! No, uh, it looks ... fine."

If he didn't know her well, he might miss the disappointment in her eyes. She drops her gaze quickly and tugs the skirt, adjusting it minutely. "Oh, good," she says, trying to keep her voice upbeat. "I haven't had a lot of opportunities to dress up, and I was afraid I would put it on wrong, or pick something completely the wrong color. And I couldn't really ask for help from Visas, of course, and Mira's tastes aren't really that close to mine ... "

He almost feels angry. What does she _want_ him to say? "No, it looks great, princess. You look fantastic."

"Thank you," she says, smiling up at him. Looking at her, he can tell he hasn't completely done away the bad impression given by his first lukewarm comment. He feels his frustration ebb; she didn't ask him because she was trying to make him stumble all over himself in reply, she asked because she values his opinion.

And she asked him for his opinion. Him; not Mical.

She surveys him in a sweep from head to toe. "Wow. I almost don't recognize you, Atton, you look so ... " She ducks her head as she blushes a little. "Refined."

Instinctively he glances down at himself. No one has ever described him as "refined" before. Ever. But he smirks. "'Course I do. 'Refined' is practically my middle name - right after 'dashing', and 'manly', and 'heroic', and 'charming', and - "

"Uh-huh, sure." She smiles, more widely this time. The way it lights up her face - his heart nearly stops at the sight of her.

She glances over her shoulder in the direction of the girls' dormitory. "I should probably see if Visas needs any help - "

"Hey, princess - " She turns back to look at him, and he swallows hard on a suddenly dry throat. "You look ... beautiful. Beyond beautiful, you - you look perfect. Really."

The smile she gives him then stays with him for a long time; all night, until he falls asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
_'Cause it's you and me_  
 _And all of the people_  
 _With nothing to do_  
 _Nothing to prove_

He has always hated Korriban. It looks dusty and barren, another nowhere dirtball on the edge of the galaxy - move along, nothing to see here. But once you set down on it, the dark energy that's _everywhere_ on Korriban seeps under your skin. It messes with your sleep, crawls into your head and stays there. And even if you leave, the second you set foot on it again, it feels like you've never left.

Right now, all he wants to do is get her back onto the ship, picking her up and carrying her there himself if necessary, and set coordinates for the first planet he can think of that isn't Korriban, and spend the rest of their lives pretending this place doesn't exist. But for some reason, she insisted on searching this cave - a cave that reeks, is the lair of who knows how many of Korriban's inhospitable natives, just after they narrowly escaped a confrontation with the Sith Lord who holds himself together through the power of sheer hatred.

Somewhere inside, he can sense the same thing she does; something telling them there is something here she needs to do. It's hard to hear, underneath all the chaotic, insidious Dark Side floating around everywhere, but now that he's heard it he can't ignore it.

Since landing, he was glued to her side. In the valley, he left Mandalore and Bao-Dur to guard the rear while he stayed close to her. He stayed no more than an arm's length behind her in the academy. And though she has the balance of a Twi’lek acrobat, he didn't take his eyes off her as they crossed the bridge in the cave. The walkway is wide enough for one person to walk across without trouble, but on either side of those eighteen inches is an abyss (the others call it a ravine, but it's not a ravine if it takes you an hour to reach the bottom; if there _is_ a bottom).

But in spite of all his determination, he's on the wrong side of a sealed set of doors practically glowing with Dark Side energy, pacing as he waits for her to come out. Bao leans against the cave wall a few feet away, one eye on the doors, one on some mechanical thing he's tinkering with. Mandalore remains at the foot of the walkway, watching for more beasts or Sith. Visas, Mira and Mical, who showed up some time ago, are sitting together close to the door, occasionally glancing around at the others with varying levels of concern.

Time gets twisted around on Korriban, so he isn't sure how much later it is when he hears the doors grind open and she appears in the doorway. Her robes are torn in a few places, and coated with dirt. Her hair tumbles down past her shoulder in tangled waves. The strap on her bag has broken at on end, so she has it tucked under one arm, her lightsaber in her other hand. In a few places, something has stained her clothes - maybe blood.

She stares at them warily, her eyes wide in her almost white face, recognizing them but not quite sure they're real. Her breath is coming in shallow, and a little too quick. She is favoring her right leg, and doesn’t seem to notice that some of her hair has fallen into her eyes.

He can feel the others' uncertainty. They have always followed her lead, which leaves them unsure of how to respond when she stands there indecisively. It's a natural response, to mimic the attitude of the leader. But she's always been more than just the leader to him, and he can't just stand there waiting while she might be seriously injured.

He takes a step forward - slowly and only an inch forward, since she is so clearly on-edge. Her head swivels instantly and she locks her gaze on him, like a turret gun at a target painted on a wall. "Are you alrigh - "

Her expression becomes one he has never seen on her face before, and she drops the bag. At the same moment, she starts to collapse - but he's there to catch her before she does. Her fingers clamp around his arms in a death-grip, and she starts sobbing.

He's seen Jedi break down before - far too many times - but never her. He stares down at her in dumbfounded shock for a moment, before alarm and resolve take over. Without another thought he picks her up, cradling her to his chest like a small child. He ignores the thoughts and emotions stirred up by this, turns around and heads straight for the entrance to the cave.

The others hang close, offering medical aid or to carry her, but he refuses each one. She continues to cling to him, crying so hard she couldn't speak, if she wanted to. He wants to whisper to her that it will all be okay, to kiss her forehead, to tell her he is never letting her out of his sight again, but the others are watching; and he knows better, anyway.

He doesn't let even Mical touch her until he sets her down in the _Hawk_ 's medbay. The kid insists on giving her a tranquilizer, and it seems to help. She's able to catch her breath between sobs now, and seems more aware of her surroundings. She reaches out to each of them - Mira, Visas, himself, Mical - and grabs their hands, searching them for some kind of reassurance. And though they have no idea what it is she is looking for, she seems to get it anyway, as she relaxes more.

Finally, the younger man announces that all her injuries (physical ones, at least) are non-threatening, and should heal quickly. He has more faith in Blondie’s medical skills than Sith torturers could get him to admit aloud, but he has to see that she’s okay for himself. So he takes up residence in the medbay, ignores the stares and whispers, and sits on the counter, watching her face as she sleeps.

He leaves just before she wakes up.


	6. Chapter 6

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
_Something about you now_  
 _I can't quite figure out_  
 _Everything she does is beautiful_  
 _Everything she does is right_

It's been hours, and she still hasn't said a word. He's about ready to tear his hair out, scream, or curl up in a ball and cry. If this lasts much longer, he might do all three; which is not acceptable, not in the slightest. He has to do _something_.

How could he have been so _stupid_ , so phenomenally _stupid_ , to let her go alone?! He knew what Jedi were like - at least, the ones who weren't her, or weren't trained by her. He had seen the holo-image of her trial from all those years ago. He should have known it was going to go wrong. He should have _known_.

Six hours ago, she was fine; when anyone else would have been nervous and antsy, she was calm, composed, and in complete control of herself. Six hours ago, everyone was milling about the _Ebon Hawk_ restlessly, maybe a touch anxious but mostly just waiting for her to come back and give them their next directions. Six hours ago, he had been shut up in the cockpit, playing an endless game of pazaak with himself, keeping an eye out the window to watch for her.

Four and a half hours ago, he had been lying on the floor of the cockpit, feeling like his head had been split open like a walnut. Five of Atris' ghost-women had somehow gotten onto the ship and attacked him from behind, demanding to know where Kreia was, of all people. Considering he had just been cracked on the head, he thought he answered their questions pretty well, but "How in the fracking Nine Hells should _I_ know?!" had clearly not been what they were looking for.

Four hours, fifteen minutes ago, the Handmaiden had marched onto the ship, the old woman following demurely behind her, and announced that Kreia had revealed herself as a Sith Lord (wow, he did _not_ see _that_ one coming!) and killed the Jedi meeting in the Enclave. It would have been a perfect time for another "Captain Obvious" comment, except the way she phrased it, he had thought it meant _she_ was dead, too.

Three and a half hours ago, the Handmaidens were on their way with Kreia to Telos, he and the remaining crew members had been gathered in the main hold, trying valiantly but totally without success to piece together a plan, when she had walked onto the ship, alive and unharmed.

It should have been one of the happiest moments of his life; but she had cut off their exclamations, asked short questions about what had happened, and told him to plot a course for Telos. Then she had gone, shut herself in the cargo bay, and refused admittance to any of them.

One and a half hours ago, Mira thought she heard her crying.

Something about that meeting went wrong; worse than Kreia "revealing" her Sith identity ("Darth Traya", he thinks the Handmaiden called her - it was hard to hear underneath all the disgust) and killing the three Jedi Masters in front of her. Something that's eating her up inside. Something she won't talk to anyone about. Something she won't even talk to _him_ about.

He debates all the way to the cargo hold whether he should knock or just go in; then suddenly realizes the door is already open. Sitting with her in the corner is Mical.

Part of him gets angry, and the sharp-toothed monster in his chest bites deep; but he tells them both to shut up. _What's important is that - is that - she's getting help,_ he tells himself. _And if Blondie can do it better than you, stay out of his way._

They look up and see him. She dashes away tears on her sleeve, and Mical nods respectfully to him. He manages a stiff nod back. Then Mical slips past him into the hallway, shutting the door behind him.

He wastes no time. "Are you all right? What happened?" In four strides, he's at her side, catching up her hand in his. It feels so small in his, so smooth and soft on his callused palm. He squeezes gently, and feels her grip back hard, like she’s drowning and he’s her lifeline. He drops into a crouch next to her. "Oh, princess. It's all right. It's going to be all right, princess. What happened?" he repeats, a gentleness that surprises even him in every word.

"They - " She starts crying again, and struggles to regain her composure. He tightens his grip on her hand, and this time doesn't stop himself from reaching up and stroking her hair. Unexpectedly she leans on him, resting her head on his shoulder as she continues to cry.

In a choked voice, with occasional quiet encouragement from him, she explains what happened. How the Jedi Masters told her she cut herself off from the Force at Malachor V, that she is using her recent re-connection to the Force to siphon it off of others, that she forces others - particularly Force-sensitives - to follow her against their reason, their wishes, even their will, that the new Sith have learned this siphoning technique from her, that she represents a wound that could somehow "kill" the Force itself.

They had said the only way to solve this was to strip her of the Force again; and if Kreia hadn't shown up, lectured them (he almost laughs at this - even in "Sith mode", the witch can't resist an opportunity to lecture), and killed them, they would have done it.

He tries to sort through the mynock's nest of emotions this brings up - anger, disbelief, bitter amusement, pity, compassion, relief ... and an undeniable bit of happiness from the way she continues to rest her head on his shoulder.

He tries to find the right words - to explain that he has never, ever, followed her because of some mystical Force obligation, that this "wound in the Force" is a load of bantha shit, that in defiance of all odds and logic he actually agrees with Kreia, a little - and learns from her that Mical has already said most of them. Only more poetically, of course, with more syllables, less vitriol and more Jedi goodness. Something must be wrong with him, because he actually feels grateful toward the kid for that, but he shoves that aside and finally, _finally_ finds the words to say.

"Listen to me, princess. I don't care what garbage those Masters threw at you - I've been here because I _wanted_ to be, not because you, or the Force, or anything else made me. And don't try and throw me out, either, because whatever else happens here on out, you'll have me at your back. From one end of the galaxy to the other, to Hell and back - _always_."

She sits quiet for a moment, her head still on his shoulder, with him still stroking her hair. "Thank you, Atton," she says finally, soft and sincere. Three words have never meant more, or sounded better to him. A smile is almost too much to ask for, but she makes a valiant effort at one anyway.

Before he can think better of it, he kisses her on the forehead. Then he stands, helps her to her feet, and leads her out of the cargo bay ... still holding her hand.


	7. Chapter 7

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
_What day is it?_  
 _And in what month?  
This clock never seemed so alive_

It’s their first real argument.

When they first met eighteen months ago, a mutual need for survival kept their sarcastic barbs to a minimum. He ripped her a good one verbally a few months later when she confronted him about the lies he’d been telling and secrets he’d been keeping from her, but she had taken it all in stoic stride, not even raising her voice as she pressed him for the truth.

People are always underestimating her, seeing only the compassionate, effortlessly good Jedi, forgetting that she was once Revan and Malak’s top general. If they could see her now - eyes flashing, face set like flint, voice as intense as a lightsaber beam - they would either lose control of all bodily functions, or run screaming like a stuck mynock.

“This isn’t up for debate, Atton. I’m going after Revan, and you’re not invited.”

He folds his arms across his chest. Under other circumstances, he would be the one running from the room screaming like a stuck (strong, manly) mynock, but not this time. For the first time since he ran away to join the Republic army, he knows he’s in the right, and he is _not_ going to be dissuaded. “Then you’re gonna have to throw me off, princess, because you’re not going alone.”

“Why do you _always_ have to do this? Can’t you just do what I ask? Just for once?”

“Not this, princess.”

Something lurks in her expression, something he can’t quite make out. She runs a hand through her hair as she shakes her head. “Atton, this isn’t … I can’t take anyone with me.”

“Says who? Kreia?”

“She -- It’s not -- “

“You’re listening to her? Still?”

She shakes her head again, her mouth a firm line. “You can’t come,” she says again. Her voice wavers slightly, but he can tell her resolution hasn’t.

“Why?” He demands, taking a step closer. He might not be able to convince her, but he is going to make her tell him why it’s so damned important she go alone. Why she can’t take anyone, not even him. Why she’s leaving him behind.

She turns away, biting her lower lip. He knows he has to wait for her to answer, so he waits. He waits until he feels like he’s going to fall to pieces and tell her everything he’s spent months making sure she’d never know. Eventually, finally, she inhales slowly and turns back to him, her eyes shining with tears. “Because what’s out there is more dangerous than anything I’ve faced yet,” she says, speaking like the words are being dragged out of her with a hook. “And it’s too dangerous -- I can’t -- “

She visibly struggles for a moment, and it’s killing him to just stand here while she falls apart in front of him. Words linger on the tip of his tongue, telling her never mind, forget it, he’ll do whatever she asks, whatever it takes to get that look off her face.

“I couldn’t live with myself.” Her voice is barely more than a whisper, strained by her the intensity of her emotions. “If something happened to someone I -- loved, I couldn’t … I could never forgive myself, Atton. I can’t lose anyone else -- I can’t lose -- “

His last bit of self-control snaps free, and he steps forward and pulls her against him. He stares down at her and she stares back, eyes wide with surprise and incomprehension. Then he pushes her, gently but irresistibly, against the wall, and kisses her.

He’s pictured doing this since she first walked into the detention area, fresh from the kolto tanks and clad in the least imaginative underwear he’d ever seen, and part of him is wondering _what the hell took you so long?_ He pours everything he’s felt and buried into this kiss, but holds himself back physically, not knowing if she’s ever been kissed before or under what circumstances. Gently, delicately, he deepens it, every piece of him begging that she’ll return it, though he hardly dares to hope that she would ever feel that way --

Then her hands are in his hair and her eyes are closed and she _kisses him back_.

He didn’t know it was possible to feel like this.

They break off a moment later. Her breath comes in little heaves, and he can’t figure out what to say next, and so they just stand there, staring, not quite sure what just happened, not believing what they see in the other’s eyes, not sure what should happen next.

Slowly, he brings a hand to her cheek and cups his hand against it. She leans into it, closing her eyes as tears start to fall. She takes a deep breath, about to speak, but he speaks first.

“I love you.”

A strangled sob escapes her.

He pulls her against him, pressing his face into her hair and kissing it, over and over. “I’ve loved you from the first minute I saw you. You saved me, and I didn’t think that was possible. If there’s anyone who can do whatever needs to get done out there, it’s you, princess. I know that.” He slides a hand under her chin and tilts her head up, making sure she meets his eyes. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”

More tears are falling now, and the depth of the emotion -- the love for _him_ \-- in her eyes astounds him. She opens her mouth. He can see her resolution wavering.

“ _Please_ , princess.”

It breaks. She nods her head repeatedly, too overcome to speak. He is, too, so he settles for picking her up and whirling her around, letting emotions too powerful to be defined sweep over him. He sets her back down, but her arms stay locked around his neck, and he rests his forehead against hers.

His princess is too strong to be overcome by mere emotion for long, so a minute later she’s almost the picture of composure - or at least she’s pretending to be, wiping away the tear stains and clearing her throat repeatedly. It occurs to him that Blondie, Bao-Dur or any of the others might walk in at any second, so he takes a step back and brushes a hand against his own cheeks, just to be sure.

He clears his throat. “So, where are we going? ‘Cause last time, there was this Sith Lord, some old woman who thought she was the queen of the galaxy, and this droid with an attitude problem …”


End file.
